


Write Again Soon

by dorkpatroller



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, TRY AND STOP ME, au where everything is the same except no evil dragons, because I mean, inigo centric, it's cute, just pretend the events of awakening never happened, the soulmate thing, where you write on your skin and it shows up on your soulmate, you should be good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 02:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9269570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorkpatroller/pseuds/dorkpatroller
Summary: When Inigo is a little boy his soulmate writes him a message on his skin. They pass notes their whole lives, but they don't imagine they'll ever meet. Soulmates almost never do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i will stop writing soulmate aus when someone pries them out of my cold, dead hands. Lon'qu!Inigo and some kind of blonde owain. Maybe Vaike? Maybe Maribelle. ;) It's pretty vague.
> 
> I needed to get some owainigo out of my system.

Inigo has only just turned six years old the very first time it happens. He is sitting next to his mother at the kitchen table, and they are peeling the skins off potatoes to prepare for dinner. His mother’s hair is piled up on top of her head in a messy bun and although he often sees her in outfits with decorative bangles and flowing fabrics, today she is wearing a very casual peasant dress. She dances for tips, and it barely fetches them the money they need but it is enough, for now.

 

Inigo wants to be a dancer too, one day, so that he can help her earn money and so that they might not have to struggle quite so much. He’s not as pretty as she is, though. His skin isn’t quite as creamy, and his hair is muddy brown, like his father’s was. She says that he looks very handsome, and that he should be thrilled to take after his father. Inigo can’t particularly remember much of his father before he died… but he always nods his head yes at her. He thinks his father must have been amazing, if his mother speaks so highly of him.

 

The two of them are only partway through peeling the potatoes when Inigo’s hand tingles in a way it never has before. He doesn’t think he’s cut himself, and it doesn’t feel as if it is falling asleep… It feels more like a bug is crawling over his skin, and so he jumps up and snaps his wrists to fling it off of him.

 

…But there is nothing.

 

“Inigo?” Olivia asks. She sets aside the knife in her hand and she reaches out for him. He crawls into her lap and looks down at his hands, at the source of the tingling sensation. She looks down too, and he hears her say “Ooooh.”

 

On the inside of his palm in greyish colored script, letters are forming. One by one, as if someone is writing on his hand, but there is no one. No pen, no movement. He sucks in his breath and tries to read the letters. They’re a lot neater than his handwriting. To be fair… he only just learned how to write that year.

 

_Can you see this?_

“Mama,” He starts to say, and Olivia traces her fingertip over the marking on her son’s palm. “What is this?”

 

“This is your soulmate.” She says. Inigo wrinkles up his nose, not even sure what that means. She giggles. “Think of it as your best friend, for now. Some people, but not everyone, have a very best friend who is _so_ special they can write notes on each other. If you’re lucky someday you’ll grow up and meet each other, and you’ll be together forever.”

 

Inigo frowns at her though. A best friend? For his whole life? If this person is so special, where are they? But… on second thought, he doesn’t really need any friends. He’s happy enough with his mother, and talking to other kids is… scary. “How do I make it go away?”

 

Olivia rolls her eyes but it’s very playful and she reaches down to hug Inigo close to her. “My sweet boy. You don’t make it go away! It means someone is always going to be on your side. You should be happy!”

 

“But…” But he doesn’t want a soulmate. Or a best friend. What good is a friend that he can’t see, anyway? It isn’t like they could play together when one of them is just an imaginary entity writing on his hand.

 

“You should write back.” Olivia says. Inigo blinks up at her. His eyes are like hers, the only thing of him quite like her. Big and soft and purplish. “Go fetch the inkwell.” She says, and she pushes him out of her lap.

 

Inigo is _very_ skeptical, but he leaves the room. They have a desk in their front room with a big bottle of ink and a beaten-up quill. He takes both items and then walks back into the kitchen. He climbs back into his chair and sets both on the table, and Olivia uncorks the ink. She takes up the quill. It’s got a big feathery tip to it, and she sweeps it under Inigo’s chin. “You turn that frown upside down right now little man.” She ‘scolds’ him, but it works and he smiles, even giggles for her.

 

He takes the quill from her when she offers it. “Say hello.” She says, and she resumes peeling potatoes. Inigo swirls the quill through the ink. He hesitates before he touches the quill to his skin, however.

 

“All I have to do is write...?”

 

“All you have to do is write. Whoever they are will see anything you write on your skin, so only write nice things.”

 

“Will everything they write show up on me?” Inigo asks. Olivia nods her head. Inigo draws letters as neatly as he can.

 

_Yes._

 

_Wow! My name is Owain. Who are you?_

 

Inigo gasps out loud, and Olivia leans close to look at his hand. “Mom! I don’t know that name.”

 

“O-wane. Or… hmm. Maybe it’s o-win?” Olivia tries. “It looks like a boy’s name.”

 

“So my best friend is a boy...?” Inigo asks.

 

Olivia is quiet for a second and Inigo wonders if maybe it isn’t supposed to be a boy. Maybe soulmates—that’s what she said before isn’t it? —have rules. Not long after that thought crosses his mind, however, she shrugs her shoulders. “It looks like it. You should tell him your name, too.”

 

Excitement flutters inside of Inigo’s belly like a butterfly spreading its wings for the first time. He was nervous before but… this is sort of fun. He has a best friend and he doesn’t even have to work for it. He doesn’t have to be brave or try to talk without stuttering or flap his mouth like a fish.

 

_My name is Inigo._

 

¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨

 

 

Not everyone has a soulmate. Inigo’s mother told him that, but the more he found out about it the more he realized it was sort of taboo to have one. Soulmates almost never met each other in person and honestly there was no real evidence they were even meant to know each other. Some people called it demonic to have writing appear on one’s body. Possession! Olivia told Inigo not to tell anyone he had a soulmate and at only 8 years old he understands why.

 

It sucks.

 

Owain is a great friend, for what it’s worth. They have been passing notes back and forth to each other for two years. Owain’s handwriting has always been better than Inigo’s. He writes precise and almost geometrically and Inigo writes… in scribbles. They get along well enough. It can’t be that difficult to get along with an invisible entity that writes on your arm.

 

Inigo struggles with wondering what Owain is like. Is he _real_? Maybe he _is_ some demon, but if he is he is a particularly good listener. Or reader. Whatever. Maybe Owain is like him, and hasn’t got many friends. Maybe that’s why he always seems to respond right away when Inigo scrawls in ink along his arms.

 

 _Mom says she thinks I’ll be less shy if I talk to girls._ He writes one day. It is hot in the summer and he is sitting on the porch of his mother’s house and drinking water.

 

It is so hot that Inigo decides to peel his shirt off, to properly bake in the sun. Summers in Ferox were not often that warm… but this one has been particularly brutal. Their house is like a pot, boiling them alive. Without waiting for Owain to write back, he adds to his arm. _It’s hot._

 

The first few letters of Owain’s response surface in fine print on Inigo’s right arm. It’s something that, over the course of the two years since they met (“met” being an objective term), Inigo has come to find very relaxing. Watching patterns in ink blossom into letters or sometimes drawings across his skin makes him feel calm.

 

 _Are girls easier to talk to?_ Owain writes. The ink is always dark grey, like it rests under Inigo’s skin instead of on top of it, the way it is when he writes messages himself. _It’s hot here too._

 

 _Girls are just as scary as boys! Maybe she suggested it because they’re nice._ Inigo grins right away.

 

Owain writes _I’m nice!_

_You don’t count._ Inigo writes back. Of course, he isn’t sure what he can say to support that observation. Owain doesn’t count because Inigo hasn’t been afraid to talk to him since the very first day, but… it’s also not really talking. It’s more like writing a letter. It’s much easier to say things in ink and pen than it is to try and form the words out loud to someone who is looking right at you.

 

Plus, there’s always the theory that Owain isn’t real at all, but some magical figment of his imagination. A curse, manifesting in relaxing handwriting on his arms. His right arm. Always his right arm though it wasn’t that way the very first times.

 

The passing thought gives Inigo an excuse to change the subject and so he writes _Are you left handed?_

 

There is silence. Silence? Is that what it’s supposed to be called? Inigo wonders if he made his friend mad by saying he doesn’t count as someone nice. Instead he glances at his left arm. Owain draws a flourish on it, and then words that say _I can use both hands to write._ Inigo almost picks up the quill to write back when he notices that, now, back on his right arm, Owain is writing again. It says _I use my left to write to you so that we don’t run out of room on our arms as quickly. Because you’re right handed._

It makes him blush. A burning, bright blush on Inigo’s face but it isn’t so bad because he’s alone on his mother’s porch. Owain can’t _see it_. No one can see it. It only lasts a few moments anyway. He’s eight. No one has ever done something just to make his life easier before, except for his mother. It’s weird, and it makes him feel happy.

 

 _You’re right. You are very nice._ He writes. He glances up and he sees his mother walking up the path to their home. She has a basket of fruits and vegetables in her hands. She must have stopped by the market… and so Inigo scribbles a goodbye. _Mom is home. I’ll let you know how talking to girls goes. Write again soon._

Inigo corks the bottle then, and he uses a scrap rag to wipe away the last of the ink from the quill. He stands up and looks at his arms. They’re covered in writing, now. Usually he washes it off right away, so that no one can see it and accuse him of being something strange. Today he decides to run forward to help his mother carry the groceries, and he will wash up after.

 

 _I know you’ll do great._ Inigo finds it written on his skin later, as he is washing ink from his arms with his mother’s honey scented soaps.

 

¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨

 

When Inigo is ten he does not have to worry about ink surfacing on his arms any longer. For one reason or another Owain leaves notes on his legs now. Inigo hasn’t bothered to ask why. They have formed a routine in which they talk to each other in the evening _anyway_ … and so when Inigo is changing into his sleeping clothes he finds a short novel on his legs about Owain’s day, or his heroic deeds.

 

Usually Inigo jokes that his writing is silly but it isn’t. It _really_ isn’t. The way Owain writes is poetic and the stories he blatantly makes up deserve to be told. Inigo thinks he should be a storyteller, traveling and passing down legends.

 

When Inigo is ten he is still pretty bad at talking to other people he doesn’t know… but his mother’s advice stays with him and so he tries to be friendly with girls. He has one friend who is a girl. Her name is Kjelle and she used to live in Ylisse. Her family moved to Ferox recently. She’s more interested in practicing with swords and spears than she is in being Inigo’s friend… but he’s good with a sword too. When he is not practicing dance with his mother, he practices with a sword with Kjelle… because maybe if he is trained in swordplay more people will like him?

 

If no one else, Owain certainly thinks it is cool. Inigo asked him once if he knew how to use swords at all. Owain said that his uncle did, and that he was going to ask him to teach him someday.

 

Inigo is washing his face one morning in the fall when he notices something strange. His palms are covered in Owain’s writing. He hesitates to look at it, but… none of it makes sense. It clearly isn’t for him to see, and it isn’t a story like normal.

 

Not to mention Owain hasn’t written anything on Inigo’s hands or arms in a long time. Inigo dresses maybe a little faster than usual that morning. He heads down the stairs of his mother’s little home and when he walks into kitchen she is already seated at the table with her hands wrapped around a cup of tea and with a pastry on a plate beside her. She pushes the pastry towards her son when he sits in his chair.

 

“Good morning, Inigo.” She says. He smiles at her and reaches out for the pot of tea to pour himself a cup when she must see his hands, because she blinks. “Oh, you have writing on your hands again.”

 

He looks at his palms once more and then back at her. “Yes...?” He asks. She looks concerned, or maybe confused, and he isn’t sure he knows why until he sits back into his seat with his tea and she explains herself.

 

“I thought you two stopped talking to each other. I haven’t seen anything on your skin in over a year!”

 

So, he hesitates and picks at the pastry in front of him. He looks down at his hands and then at her. “Would you prefer that we don’t contact each other?” And maybe if his mother wanted him to, he would stop. Maybe he would tell Owain goodbye and move on from his best friend.

 

But instead of saying that, Olivia smiles at her son and shakes her head. “You should always follow your heart, Inigo, no matter where it leads you. So,” She begins, and she reaches out for Inigo’s wrist. “What does he have to say?”

 

“Oh,” Inigo looks at it again. It still doesn’t make sense, but there are more and more tiny scribbles. On both hands. When Owain writes with his right hand, it is less neat than his left… but still very legible. Inigo wonders if that is because he writes with his left so often, when they send each other messages. “He’s not talking to me. He never writes notes to me on our hands.”

 

“These look like speaker notes.” Olivia says. Inigo raises his eyes at her, unsure what that even means, and she says “Oh, when people speak in front of others, they may write notes. Usually on parchment…”

 

“Why would he have to speak in front of a lot of people?” Inigo couldn’t even fathom it. He could barely speak in front of one or two of his friends without feeling insecure. Why should he have to speak in front of anyone, really? He is the same age as Inigo, he is only ten. Who could possibly care what a ten-year-old has to say?

 

Still… Inigo stands up from the table and slips into the sitting room and open up the ink. By the time he looks at his hands there is hardly any space left, but… he managed to squeeze in a message on the tip of his pinky finger.

 

_Good luck!_

 

¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨

 

_You know there is some beautiful irony in your being a boy._

 

Inigo is twelve when he figures out what being soulmates _really_ means. It is still a taboo and it is still unrealistic that they will ever meet, but it means that the person who is most likely to fall in love with you is your soulmate. It means that Owain and he are meant to be more than just _best friends_.

 

Of course, that’s absurd because Inigo is still too shy to really talk to men. He is easily intimidated by them. He instead puts his focus into trying to master the art of talking to girls. Kjelle says practice doesn’t make perfect, that practice makes permanent. She tells him that if just talking isn’t working maybe he should try flirting. Flirting is sort of foreign to Inigo but… girls his age are all starting to get sort of prettier and boys his age are starting to get taller and so he tries. His mother is nothing if not supportive of his efforts.

 

Inigo is sure he and Owain are both on the same page about never meeting each other in real life, outside of their strange conversations scrawled across their thighs. Owain is really nice, and he’s definitely Inigo’s best friend… but even if Inigo did want to fall in love with him (and he doesn’t) it would only end in disaster. Almost definitely.

 

 _Because you’re so obsessed with girls?_ Owain writes back. Inigo grins, entirely on accident. He leans over to dip the quill again and then he draws a picture of a broken heart.

 

 _It isn’t an obsession, simply an interest!_ He argues, but that is exactly the reason why. He sighs while he watches Owain. He draws an ‘o’… ah, never mind. He draws a couple of stick men. No, he thinks one may be a stick woman. He draws out the words ‘Inigo is gross’ and draws an arrow pointing to her.

 

Honestly he’s had worse rejections and he is still only just beginning his journey of flirting. He has every intention to get better. _Surely you didn’t think we were going to fall in love and get married one day._ Inigo writes back.

 

Maybe he just feels stupid. How could he have been so ignorant for not knowing that soulmates were meant to be, well, mates? He also feels like a soulmate is a selfish gamble. There is no reason to believe any soulmates will meet, let alone that he will meet his _own_ soulmate.

 

And what if he did?

 

Owain is his best friend, not… well it’s just sort of weird to imagine him as anything else. Or to imagine him at all. He has no idea what Owain looks like. He tends to imagine that he’s loud. That’s all his brain supplies when he tries to pull together a mental image of him.

 

 _I guess I never thought about it, yet._ Owain took a while to write that. Inigo wonders if he means it… but he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore either. He almost doesn’t want to talk about anything, but he decides to change the subject instead of leaving on such a… weird note.

 

 _I’ve been meaning to ask why you always write on our legs._ While he waits for Owain to answer he draws a line through the insult on the words Owain wrote. He makes the stick figure woman say ‘handsome’. He smiles to himself. Much better.

 

 _Oh, well my mother’s best friend convinced her that it was ‘unbecoming of a prince’ to have writing all over his arms._ Owain’s writing appears quickly enough.

 

Inigo stares at it a few seconds longer than he means to. Unbecoming of a prince. “You’re a prince?!” he asks out loud, before he realizes exactly how stupid that was… and writes it in ink on his thigh. He underlines the word prince.  _You’re a prince?_

_Yeah, I_

Inigo doesn’t wait for Owain to finish writing after he sees the first two letters of the word ‘yeah’. He just scribbles out words in his excitement. _You never told me! I have known you for six years! Half of my life! You never once mentioned you were a prince._

 

_Oops?_

_Prove it!_

 

Well it must be a lot to ask to prove it. It isn’t as if he can produce his entire lineage on their legs. Inigo is about to revoke his comment but then… then he notices a crisp line forming on his right arm. It is a little wobbly but for the most part exceptionally accurate. Inigo recognizes the mark. He has seen it before; everyone has seen it. It is the Brand of the Exalt.

 

_This is my birthmark. I traced it for you._

Inigo doesn’t know what to say after that. He believes him, that is. He believes that Owain is part of house Ylisse and now he knows where he lives, in the country to the south of him. However… it does seal the deal. They will never meet in person. Feroxi peasants have no place in Castle Ylisstol.

 

He never expected to meet Owain, of course. He sort of expects them to just be friends forever. He expects that someday when they’re grown they will talk to each other still about silly things. Still, even knowing they will never meet it is… strange. Inigo’s soulmate is a prince.

 

 _I’m not a prince._ Inigo writes back, eventually. Owain draws a smiling face on his leg in return.

 

_Prove it._

 

 ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨

 

He’s fourteen and his mom’s body is gathered up in his arms. His fingers are shaky as he combs back her hair and her skin is cooling down and turning grey and he’s not… ready. The man who came to rob them shouldn’t have taken her. They came home to find him looting their home and he threw a knife and ran.

 

She pushed her way in front of him.

 

He’s fourteen and his mom is dead. If that knife had hit him it might have lodged in his stomach and not her heart, it might not have… well maybe they would both be okay. But she’s gone—she choked out gasps and gurgled blood and told him to run and he _did._ He ran as fast as he could to find anyone with healing proficiency but they didn’t make it in time. She died and he wasn’t even there to hold her when she did.

 

The priest hasn’t left. He did his best but even the strongest magic can’t raise the dead, not when they’ve been gone this long. Inigo is sure that the priest means to help comfort him but… he doesn’t want comfort. He just wants to stay with his mother.

 

She’s beautiful in a strange way. Even with blood on her, her hair still falls over her face just right and her lips are parted like she’s about to speak. Inigo pulls her close to him and buries his nose into her neck. She smells like the honey soaps. He cries.

 

Later that night he is alone. The priest helps Inigo lay his mother to rest properly and the house is eerie and empty. He has oil lit in a small lantern and he is sitting in his room, staring at the quill and inkwell. Owain has already written on his leg, a short story about how his cousin and he let someone named Morgan join their Justice Cabal club thing. Inigo doesn’t really care.

 

He thinks Owain can help but he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t even know what to say until he’s already writing and the ink on his thigh says _My mom died today._

His eyes fill up again, spill over with tears and he whimpers and sobs into his hands when he tries to cover up the noise. She’s gone. He loves her so much; he doesn’t know what to do. He loves her so much and she’s gone and he’s never going to dance with her again, or come down stairs to the smell of pastries and tea, or hear her giggle or encourage him.

 

_Inigo I’m so sorry._

 

Owain doesn’t say anything else, not for a while. Inigo doesn’t know what he wants him to say. Maybe that he can magically fix it, that he really is some sort of demon with the power to change the world. But Owain is just a person, and he’s a good person, and he isn’t to blame. Deep down, Inigo knows even _he_ isn’t to blame.

 

 _You don’t have to apologize._ He writes through bleary eyes. He bites down hard on his lip and hiccups. _I need to go to sleep._

 

Inigo sleeps in his mother’s bed that night. When he wakes up in the morning, he finds condolences and comfort written up the entire length of his left leg.

 

…

 

Inigo doesn’t have an income and so he doesn’t have enough money to keep his mother’s house. The home he grew up in isn’t really home without his mother anyway. Eventually he leaves it behind. Kjelle gives him her only real sword. It’s a little worn but it’s got a special edge to it that causes some serious pain, or so she says. She wishes him well and he leaves the town he grew up in to journey across Regna Ferox. He isn’t the greatest at it but he picks up mercenary work.

 

Mercenary work is not always easy. Sometimes it is as simple as fighting someone else’s petty fight for them. Other times it is risky business. Inigo has a scar on his hip as evidence of that. One thing Inigo refuses to do is accept assassination jobs. He doesn’t want to kill anyone. Ever. He doesn’t want to be the person who takes away someone’s mother, or son, or brother. He doesn’t want to kill.

 

But then a day comes when he does. It’s not on purpose. He doesn’t mean to cut that deep—it is self-defense!—and yet… he is gone. A life taken by his blade, and Inigo is… sick. He shakes and he feels dizzy and he throws up twice that day before he falls into his tent, onto a pile of blankets and a bedroll, and he wants to die himself.

 

He never thought his life would be like this. A year ago he would have imagined he would be singing and dancing with his mother until she had grey hair and wrinkles. His legs tingle and it feels like feathers are tracing over them and he knows Owain is writing him a message. He almost doesn’t care. He doesn’t bother to read it.

 

He still writes to Owain almost every night. Owain is like family, almost. He is there constantly in Inigo’s life; he grounds him to the real world and yet somehow… he isn’t even in the real world himself.

 

 _Do you think I’m a bad person?_ He asks him. He sighs through his nose and rubs his temples with his fingertips. He almost thinks he’s nauseous again, but this time perhaps from having nothing to eat. Even if he had food tonight, he wouldn’t want it.

 

 _Why would I think that?_ Owain writes. _You’re a hero! You rescue damsels in distress, you help those with little to offer!_

_I killed a man today._ He writes it while Owain is still going, but Owain stops then, and he doesn’t write back. He doesn’t write back for a _while_. A long while. Inigo wonders if maybe he is right. Maybe he is a bad person.

 

He killed a man, after all. That man might have had a child, a family, a mother.

 

_You’re not a bad person, Inigo. These things happen._

 

For some reason, it makes him angry. Frustrated tears and anxiety bubble up out of Inigo through his eyes and his stomach feels like someone has tied it in knots. _How would you know? You never leave that castle!_

Inigo doesn’t write anything for the rest of the night, just stumbles out of the tent to throw up again and the falls asleep when he finally falls back inside. When he wakes up in the morning he feels… bad. Owain hasn’t said anything since Inigo wrote that and… maybe that’s why he decides to write him a note. He writes it small and on the palm of his hand, where he knows Owain will see it.

 

_I’m sorry, friend. I wasn’t myself last night. Forgive me._

It takes a few hours before Owain writes back to him, but he eventually does. He writes with his delicate handwriting a small response on the opposite hand. _I do forgive you._

 

¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨ ¸ , ♥ * ° ¨

 

On the day of his sixteenth birthday Inigo trips over a puppy. He is small and skinny and pathetic and Inigo crouches down and pities him enough to tear off some dried meat for him. He still isn’t making very much money but he hasn’t starved to death yet and hey—neither has this mangy pup, so he deserves a chance to live another day, too. While the puppy eats Inigo combs his fingers through the shaggy fur that is matted over its face, until he can see its eyes. It is a mistake that he does not even realize he has made until he tries to leave the puppy behind… because he follows.

 

He is a sheepdog pup. He is mostly white with blotches of grey on his back and tail and he is huge for a puppy. His paws are big, and Inigo is sure he has seen this breed of dog before. They grow to be quite large. Large dogs eat a lot. Inigo can hardly feed himself. He has no business feeding a giant dog.

 

As it turns out, however, it is exceptionally difficult to say no to puppy dog eyes and _especially_ when they belong to a real puppy and not just a cute girl. For that reason, Inigo leans down and scratches his ears. “Alright,” He speaks out loud, and it feels good. Maybe it would be nice to have a companion to talk to. Out loud, that is. Owain still writes to him every day but Owain is just written words. He doesn’t have a voice; he doesn’t have puppy dog eyes.

 

That night he stays in an inn instead of in his tent and the only reason why is because he happened to walk into a tavern just as a thief was making his way out. He hardly even knew what was happening during that confrontation! The woman who owns the tavern shrieked to stop him and for some reason Inigo did, and she told him she would let him eat and drink and spend a night upstairs for free as her thanks for saving her wages.

 

She even lets the dog stay with him. She loves the puppy. He pants at her with his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth and she even finds some scrap meat for him, too.

 

 _I told you! You’re a hero!_ Owain’s response to the situation is predictable. He is excited, Inigo can tell by how quickly he writes and by how many questions he asks. It makes him laugh softly to himself, too.

 

 _It was a lucky accident!_ He argues. _I’m not complaining. I haven’t eaten so much in months._ He’s so full he has a belly ache, but it’s sort of pleasant. She offered him drink as well but he only asks for water. The bed lurches and it startles him. He makes a mark on his knee by accident, and he has to grab for the inkwell that is balanced in the sheets.

 

The puppy clearly thinks it is allowed to sleep with him. It curls up near his feet. His little puppy tummy is so full, he looks ridiculous. “What is your name?” He asks. He leans forward and rubs his side, and the puppy flops onto its back. Inigo grins at him. “You can’t just go without. I’ve got to call you _something_.”

 

He has no ideas at all. No names come to mind, because he has no idea what to name a dog. He’s never had a pet at all, before. He was too shy to ask his mother for one. Spread out around him on the straw-stuffed bed he has a pile of wanted posters and advertisements, paper, and of course the ink and quill. He means to make a supply list. He has limited money but he knows he can’t leave town without stocking up on the essentials. He keeps the posters so that he can take advantage of the rewards, should he ever stumble upon the people depicted.

 

He leans back and holds up a few of them for the dog. “Do you like any of these names?” He asks. The puppy grunts at him, entirely unsure what he’s asking no doubt. Inigo sighs and pushes the posters closer. “Go on, pick one. I can’t think up a name.”

 

He’s silent still, as if he is just a dumb animal and not a perfectly capable adult. But then… then he yawns, and lays down his head, and it falls on top of one of the scattered papers. Inigo makes a grab for it (certainly startles the pup by pulling the paper out from under him) and then snorts.

 

“Douglas? I think that’s a little formal for a sheepdog.” Inigo says. The dog lifts it’s head and its ears, and Inigo shrugs. “Alright—whatever you want, Doug. Doug the dog.”

 

Inigo needs to get supplies for himself before he leaves, but he also needs to procure some supplies for his new companion. That means extra water, but most importantly food that he can eat. He doesn’t want to forget that… and so he writes it on the back of his hand. _Food for Doug._

 

…And maybe he just forgot momentarily that Owain can see what he writes on his skin everywhere, not just on his thighs and legs, because not a whole minute has passed before Owain writes back, on his opposite leg. _Who is Doug?_

_A dog. I just found him today._

_And you named him “Doug”? That’s lackluster! A hero’s companion needs a proper name! Call him Sir Douglas, after the hero-knight of old!_

_Doug is fine._ Inigo smiles and leans over to write a few supplies down on the scrap of paper so he won’t forget.

 

Owain argues that just ‘Doug’ is not fine.

 

…

 

 _Owain it was awful!_ If Inigo could properly whine through written word, he would be. Only a few months have passed since the day he met Doug and he has been a boon companion. Except for one detail. _I swooped in like a dashing knight and chased away the bandits, and Doug spooked away their horses. We saved the day!_

It’s well past Owain’s bedtime. Inigo is a night owl and he spends time under the stars dancing and chasing skirts and that’s familiar for him. Owain often falls asleep before that, and wakes earlier as well. Still… Owain waits up for him more often, lately. When Inigo is feeling lonely especially, Owain always seems to know and stays awake to listen to him complain about his bad luck.

 

If he’s a hero and he’s really not hideous, he sees no reason why women act like he’s not worth their time.  As he sort of suspects, Owain is awake… and he writes slowly but he writes _That doesn’t sound awful._

Inigo sighs. To himself, he supposes. Owain can’t hear it. _You weren’t there. A flock of lovely women witnessed the whole thing and do you know what they did?_

_I’m guessing they didn’t kiss you._

_They kissed Doug! That rotten dog pigged all their attention and got back scratches and belly rubs and no one even asked if I was alright! I think they might have paid him, too, if an elderly man hadn’t finally spared me a glance._

Owain laughs, Inigo _is sure of it_. He’s not there, he can’t hear it. He has no idea what Owain’s voice or his laughter sounds like but it’s practically ringing in his ears because the stretch of time in which Owain does not respond is _definitely_ long enough to have a good hoot.

 

 _It isn’t funny!_ Inigo adds, when the silence draws on.

 

 _I didn’t laugh!_ Owain writes back.

 

_You’re a dirty liar, and I know it. You’re making fun of me for losing out to a dog._

_Not just any dog! Sir Douglas, the Hero Pup! He is a womanizer in his own right._ Owain writes it and Inigo’s lips curl up into a smile. It is a _little_ funny, he supposes. A little funny when Owain draws a crude picture of a dog with hearts for eyes.

 

“Look Doug, it’s you.” Inigo says, and he shifts his leg to show it off. The sheepdog raises his head, tilts it, and sniffs at the image. It, of course, smells like Inigo always smells... because the ink Owain writes with shows up beneath Inigo’s skin. Doug lays his head back down, and as an afterthought flops his tongue out.

 

Inigo pulls his leg back to himself. _Doug didn’t care much for your rendition._

_Hey! That was art at its finest!_ Inigo smiles again but it melts into a sleepy yawn. It’s very late, and it’s so cold in their tent. Even where Doug is laying on him it’s chilly, and Inigo considers tossing a shirt or blanket over the dog as well. First, however, he should get rid of the ink and quill. Just as he thinks he’s going to say goodbye, Owain has left a new note on his leg.   _Are you going to sleep now, or going out dancing?_

_I’m too tired to dance, tonight._ Inigo hums to himself, because he’s so drowsy. _Why are you up so late? Some princely duties?_

_I’m not that kind of prince…_ There is slight pause before Owain continues his writing. _I stayed up to make sure you got to bed safe and sound. What sort of soulmate would I be if I didn’t wish you goodnight?_

Inigo’s smile melts into a tiny frown. _I appreciate the sentiment. Goodnight, friend._ He corks the inkwell. He needs to buy more ink soon. He pushes his legs under the blankets and Doug snorts when he is disturbed from his sleep.

 

When he is wrapped up warm in the blankets he closes his eyes and thinks about Owain again. He said when they were younger that he didn’t plan to fall in love with him, because falling in love with your soulmate is pointless. If he meant that comment to be entirely platonic, why would he have said soulmate and not _friend_?

 

Inigo is unsure what he is more troubled by, really. The idea that Owain might have romantic feelings towards him… or perhaps the fact that it brings unexpected warmth to Inigo on an otherwise frigid night.

 

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When he is eighteen Inigo has come to terms with his crush on Owain. He’s decided it’s okay. It is only natural for him to have feelings for the person who, according to all of the stories people pass down of soulmates, is meant to love him above all else. Besides, Owain is his best friend. There’s no harm in a little flirting now and then, between friends.

 

That being the case, since Owain began staying up late just to make sure Inigo gets to bed safely, well, the flirting has been less ‘now and then’ and more… all the time. All in good fun! Certainly not because Inigo has fallen for him. He can’t have fallen for Owain. He’s never even seen him, never met him, and he certainly still tries to woo the ladies when he crosses through towns and villages.

 

Not that he’s had any luck. It’s been a particularly bad evening. He didn’t strike out once, but twice. In the same 10-minute span of time. He’s not even sure how it happened! He turned to smile at a young woman and she scowled at him and turned up her nose like she _knew_ he was going to try and win her heart.

 

Inigo isn’t a bad man. He isn’t trying to arrange for a one night stand. How hard is it to believe that he wants to find love? His mother and father loved each other very much, they were happy together. He only just wants to be happy, too. Deep down he clings to the idea that even _he_ deserves to have a happily ever after.

 

  _Am I hideous?_ It’s warm and Inigo is sitting in his underclothes in his tent, scribbling on his skin by the light of a small oil lamp and trying not to smear it with the sweat sheening across his entire body. _A monster, no doubt. I’m entirely unlovable._

He doesn’t expect Owain to call him good looking, of course. That would be a lie. All Owain knows is that Inigo is a Feroxi mercenary. He couldn’t pick him out of a crowd. He _expects_ Owain to comfort him by writing condolences for the loss of his dignity. Instead tiny, perfectly shaped hearts surface on the back of his hand. First one, and then another, until they’re blossoming in a sporadic trail from his fingertips to his elbow. He repeats the action on the opposite hand, too.

 

Inigo bites his lip but it doesn’t stop him from smiling so wide it’s embarrassing. He leans forward to dip the quill tip and then he brushes the ink over his skin to write as quickly as he can. _I thought it was unbecoming of a prince to have ink on his arms?_

_It’s for a good cause! I can bend the rules now and then, for you. Obviously._

Obviously. Inigo looks at the hearts on his arms again and his cheeks blossom pink. He tries to imagine Owain drawing them. He pretends he can see him, reaching out and dragging the quill across Inigo’s skin, holding his arm with a gentle grip. He tries to imagine his smile. Is it calm? Warm? Big? Does he smile with his teeth or with a closed mouth? He drags his hands down his face but it can’t kill the heat there.

 

 _I’m blushing now. I hope you’re happy._ He complains so halfheartedly it’s almost a joke. He’s blushing like a little child because his soulmate drew a few hearts on his skin. He lays back into his bedroll for a moment. He tries to smear the smile off his face but it won’t go away.

 

“I’m never going to meet him, Doug.” He turns his head to look at the dog. Doug’s ears perk up and he walks closer. He’s huge, in this tent. Inigo knows he needs to buy a larger one… because it is meant for a single occupant. Doug practically counts as his own person for as much as he eats and as much space he takes up. He sloppily licks at Inigo’s hand and Inigo snorts and takes it away. “Disgusting. Is that supposed to comfort me?” Ah, but maybe it is. Maybe in his little dog mind he knows that Inigo is upset, that he’s always upset underneath. Inigo reaches back out to him and catches his fingers behind his ear to scratch.

 

It’s impossible to predict what Owain looks like. He can ask, of course, but he isn’t sure why it matters. Even if he told Inigo the color of his hair or his skin or his eyes it wouldn’t help. Inigo wants to imagine him tracing patterns on his skin but his mind can only produce the outline of a person, blurry with no details… and when Inigo tries to focus the daydream disappears and he remembers that he’s actually alone.

 

Owain might not even be real. He’s never heard a story where two soulmates met, not one with any credibility to it. For all Inigo knows he truly might be imaginary, a trick of a curse lingering in his blood.

 

If Owain is a curse he is the nicest curse Inigo has ever heard of, however. Inigo sits back up. When he does, he notices his thighs are also covered in hearts... and he smiles all over again and traces them with his fingertips. _Hey Inigo?_ There is a note written to the side of one of the hearts.

 

_Yes?_

_Will you teach me how you dance, one day?_

 

Inigo read it twice before he was sure of what it said. Teach Owain to dance? It isn’t an offensive thought. It might even be a nice way to keep his mother’s memory alive, by showing the steps to her dance to others. The problem is that he doesn’t let _anyone_ see him dance. _Absolutely not! That’s humiliating!_

_What if I pout?_

_Like a child?_

_Like a grown man!_

_I don’t know,_ Inigo grins wide and taps the tip of the quill against his leg a few times. _Do you have a cute pout?_

_Well… You probably wouldn’t think so._ Owain writes it and Inigo is almost instantly offended. How does he know what kind of pouts Inigo thinks are cute? Inigo can guess, of course. He can guess that Owain assumes he won’t like his pout because he isn’t a woman.

 

 _Hush. Of course it’s cute._ He writes. _And I’ll teach you my dance when we meet, one day._ He doesn’t suspect they’ll ever meet anyway… but should they, he will happily teach him. He moves his wrist to one of the hearts that Owain littered over his legs, and writes their first initials together inside of one… and he thinks his heart flips backwards in his chest. They’re soulmates. They’re meant to love each other; they’re supposed to make each other happy. He hopes they meet one day. Even if it’s years and years away, even if it’s not until they both are married with their own children… he hopes he can pull Owain into a hug one day, and thank him for being his best friend.

 

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He’s twenty and he’s just _really_ horny. He’s been out drinking part of the night, he’s struck out as he always does, but there’s an ache in his body he can’t seem to shake today. Doug is waiting for him in their room at an inn. He can’t particularly afford it but the ground is covered in ice and it’s snowing and they deserve to sleep in a bed now and then.

 

Doug, on the other hand, gets shoved to the floor. He snorts and curls up on top of Inigo’s shirt once he peels it off. Inigo isn’t that sorry. He’ll let Doug sleep on the bed in a while, but for now… for now he barely loosens his belt before he squirms out of his trousers. He just wants to take care of this. He’s warm all over from the alcohol, hard as a rock and he thinks this won’t take long.

 

And then he stops because there is a stain across his entire groin. Owain’s stain, ink under his skin that is splattered over his thighs and his lap and dribbles down between his legs although it is completely dry… and he’s still desperate, and certainly he’s mostly drunk, but he is understandably distracted…. And so, he shuffles through his bag until he finds his ink and quill and he scribbles _Why is there ink all over me?_ on his leg, closer to his knee.

 

_I spilled the bottle._

 

_And you were writing naked, then?_

_No! It bled through!_ Owain protests. Inigo snickers.

 

 _How boring! You know you’ve ruined my mood. How am I supposed to rub one out, now, if I’m covered in your mess?_ It hits him a few seconds after he’s written it that he likely shouldn’t be saying that. He’s a little too tipsy. Still, when he brushes his fingertips over his own writing he sort of likes the implication of it.

 

Owain made a mess of him.

 

Owain also takes a few seconds too long to answer, and Inigo is sure that means he’s flustered by the comment. _You could think of something inspiring?_ Inigo laughs to himself.

 

_Inspire me, then. What shall I think of, instead of this ink?_

_Me._

 

Heat floods down, pools in his groin and Inigo bites his lower lip. Yeah, he thinks, while he curls his fingers around himself.

 

Owain has always been inspiring.

 

…

 

_So, did you really think of me?_

_Owain, please don’t ask me that!_

_…_

Inigo is going to die tonight. Oh, he’s going to die. He knows it, but he can’t do much about it. He didn’t mean to get involved with this group of people. They tricked him, anyway. They asked him to meet with them about mercenary work and then they backed him into helping them with a feud between rival families.

 

There isn’t enough time in this world to let brothers kill brothers. But they promised to kill Inigo if he tried to back out. They have men standing just outside the door of the room at the inn. Feroxi men tend to be bigger and stronger than Inigo. If they send him there without support he’ll die as a decoy.

 

_Owain? I know it’s earlier than usual are you… are you there?_

Once he leaves this room he’s a dead man walking. Once the brutes outside his door guide him into a mini battle he’s sure of it. No amount of armor or technique can save him. His eyes sting when Owain doesn’t respond to him right away. He wants to say goodbye.

 

Everyone else in Inigo’s life died without getting to say goodbye. He wants to say his goodbyes. To distract himself, for a moment, he stands up and walks to his bags. From one he pulls the dried meat he feeds Doug. He leaves a hefty helping for him, on a saucer on the floor. His ears perk up and he comes over, and Inigo scrubs his fingers through his long fur.

 

“Don’t wait for me, okay Doug? Eat up good, and if I don’t come back go find someone else to take care of you. We’re not far from the Longfort. Imagine if you left here and walked all the way to Ylisstol? Do you think Owain would know who you are? Sir Douglas! My hero.”

 

Doug looks at him for a few seconds, right in his eyes, but… then he walks over to eat his meal. Inigo sighs and sits on the edge of the bed. He needs to get dressed. In a few layers, he needs his armor tonight, all of it that he owns. He glances at his leg.

 

_I’m here. Is something wrong? This is earlier than usual for you to be going to bed. Or are you going out?_

_Owain I’m going to die tonight._

_I’m sure whoever she was, wasn’t ‘the one’. You’ll be alright._ Owain tries to comfort him but… Inigo isn’t talking about a girl. He’s not exaggerating or whining.

 

His hand shakes so badly that his words come out a mess on his leg. _No, Owain. I’m being forced to take a job tonight; I don’t know if I’m coming back from it._

Owain starts to ask questions. Immediately. His leg fills up rapidly. _What? Why? Is there some way out of it? What’s going on?_

Inigo ignores… all of them. There is no way out of this. He’s going on that mission whether he wants to or not and if he doesn’t then he’s _still_ dead. He swallows but his mouth is too dry and it doesn’t help. It just hurts. He’s crying. A tear slips off his chin and splatters in some of the words Owain has written on his legs.

 

 _Stop, don’t ask. I don’t have enough time to talk. If I don’t come back I need you to know that I love you, and only you. I do a lot of flirting, but it’s always been you._ Inigo bites his lip but he can’t hold in a sob. He doesn’t want to die, but even more than that he doesn’t want to leave Owain alone. _Don’t wait up for me this time, alright?_

_I love you too, Inigo._ It shows up slowly, surfaces on his leg and Inigo sobs again, but he’s happy, too. He’s happy he got to say he loved him. He’s happy Owain loves him too. He’s just sorry they’re not going to meet one day, after all.

 

Inigo’s hand itches and for a second he thinks it’s a bug (and wouldn’t that just be adding insult to injury?), but then he realizes it’s Owain writing on his palm. Where he can see it, better. _Be well! Come back to me safe and sound. Write again soon._

But he doesn’t.

 

…

 

 

“He’s awake!”

 

Inigo’s head is throbbing when he hears the voice of a young woman. She’s just a girl really, he realizes when he opens his eyes. She’s dressed in robes and she turns around and summons the attention of an older gentleman. “Papa, he’s awake!”

 

“That he is.” The man says. Inigo tries to sit up. He barely moves at all and he decides he’s too sore. The man speaks up. “Careful now, you’ve got a broken rib or two.”

 

Inigo slumps back onto his back slowly. Realization dawns on him and he blinks away some tears. “I-I’m not dead?”

 

“Barely.” The man says. He walks closer and raises a staff over Inigo, and the light makes his head throb all over again but… when he’s through some of the tension and aches in Inigo’s body eases. “Found you left alone to die outside of town. Wouldn’t have even found you at all if that dog hadn’t damn near woke the dead with his barking.”

 

Inigo hears the words like they’ve been said in slow motion. He has to work to process each syllable. Even so, his hand slides down off the side of the cot and it falls right onto a familiar pile of fur. He closes his eyes and his lips curl up. “Doug, did you save me?” He asks, and he scritches his fingers over what he assumes is the dog’s back.

 

He breathes in deep but it burns to fill up his lungs all the way. Ah, yes. Broken ribs. “What will I owe you for your generosity?” He asks.

 

The man scoffs at him and waves his hand. “I’m a servant to the goddess. I’d have healed you either way. You can’t pay me anything—whoever left you out there looted you for all you’re worth. Couple of women said they recognized you from when you first came into town. If you had armor and weapons with you then, you sure don’t now. Not to mention a coin purse.”

 

“Ah, well. They left me my life.” Inigo says, optimistically. The man shrugs and looks over his shoulder, then waves to the girl. (His daughter? Inigo isn’t sure.)

 

“Gonna sit you up.” He says, and he leans over Inigo. “Hang on to my shoulders, kid. Annie, grab some pillows.”

 

Inigo almost doesn’t process it. The priest is already pulling on him before he scrambles to wrap his arms around his shoulders, and he ends up leaned forward until his cheek is pressed into his shoulder and Inigo closes his eyes again. This guy’s shoulder is warm. Comfortable. Maybe Owain’s would be, too?

 

“Ah—Owain.” Inigo murmurs. He needs to contact Owain. He needs to tell him that he’s alive, even if he doesn’t have any money or food or likely even his belongings. It will take him some time to replace his tent, his bedroll, his sword. He’s not sure how to even start. The idea alone is giving him a headache.

 

“Pardon me?” The man asks. “My name’s Lucas. This here is Annie.” He lays Inigo back once there are a few pillows between him and the wall and Inigo slumps against them with something of a wince.

 

“N-Not you.” Inigo answers. He looks at his hands, folded in his lap. “What day is it?”

 

“Sunday.”

 

Inigo nods his head. He said goodbye to Owain two nights ago. “Do you have a quill and ink, by any chance?”

 

“What?” Lucas asks, but Annie brightens and nods her head.

 

“I do!” She says, and she runs off. Inigo thinks she’s just barely even a teenager. When she comes back she has the quill and ink but she doesn’t have parchment. Inigo doesn’t _need it_ but he does wonder why she assumed that. “It’s for your soulmate, isn’t it?” She asks with just as much excitement. Inigo’s lips part. She smiles even bigger. “I was the one dressing your wounds. We washed away the blood and ink but when I was redressing you there was a note on your leg. Mama said it meant you had a soulmate. Will you show me how it works?”

 

It’s too much to take in. It’s humiliating that he was dressed and bathed by a young girl. Twice as humiliating that she wants to see how the ink works… when most people look down on soulmates. Inigo glances at Lucas, who shrugs his shoulders.

 

Inigo sort of wants privacy, to tell Owain he’s alright. Still, he owes these two his life and so he tries not to blush too hard while he pulls the cork open with shaky hands. “H-He might not be able to respond right away.” He says.

 

He dips the tip into the ink and then he considers where he wants to put this note. He doesn’t want to get Owain into any sort of trouble (although he is a grown man, how much trouble can he cause?) but he also wants him to know he’s alright. He’s alive. He hesitates. “Did… Did you say you noticed notes on me?” He asks, even though he knows that she said just that. “Um… what did they say. Do you remember?”

 

If either of them are bothered by the fact that Inigo’s soulmate is another male, they don’t mention it. The girl rolls in her lips and tries to recall, obviously. “Mostly just asked if you were alright.” She says.

 

Inigo nods his head and looks at the back of his hand. _I’m alive._

He doesn’t expect Owain to respond. They normally talk at night. There are a hundred things a prince might have to do during the day. But he _does_ respond. He responds after only a minute or two, and it surfaces on his right hand just like when they were younger and didn’t try to hide it. _I was so worried! Are you alright? Tell me everything!_

“That’s so cute!” Annie squeals. Inigo’s blush gets darker. Lucas shrugs.

 

“Leave ‘im be.” Lucas says, and he nudges his daughter towards the door. “We’ll get you something to eat. Try not to move too much. You need another round of healing in a couple hours.”

 

Inigo is glad he left… because not even a whole minute later Owain says _I love you so much, Inigo! Never do this to me again!_ …and Inigo starts to cry, with a smile wide on his face… because Owain loves him, and he’s alive, and maybe that means they _will_ meet one day.

 

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Owain is 22 and Inigo is 21. Owain has only _just_ turned 22 this morning. It’s a pleasantly hot day in the middle of July and Inigo is up before the sun, but he isn’t usually. There’s a tickle on his hand that he thinks is Doug licking at him, asking for food or water or to be let out of their tent. (They have a new tent: this one is much larger. Doug and Inigo both fit inside of it comfortably, without having to lay on top of each other. Doug still lays on top of Inigo.)

 

It isn’t Doug licking at his hand, though. Inigo knows because when he opens his eyes and blinks away the blur of sleep he realizes that Doug is curled up on his legs and making him sweat. So he looks at his hand just to see if maybe Owain left him a note but he didn’t… he left him something entirely different.

 

It’s just two lines, wrapped along the skin of his finger. It shouldn’t be as startling as it is but the lines are formed in complete circles around his ring finger like a band. Like a ring, like a _wedding ring_. For a second he entertains the idea that it’s just Owain being silly, but in the smallest print he writes, _Will you?_ Inside the walls of the ring.

 

Inigo doesn’t think he’s ever kicked Doug off of him faster than he does in that moment, while he’s scrambling to figure out where he left his ink and quill. He finds it and he knocks over the jar but he hastily picks it up and only spills a few drops.

 

Maybe he’s a little anxious. How could Owain ask him that? Is he serious? He doesn’t know Owain to be the type to joke about this sort of thing but he also doesn’t know what he thinks will happen. He pushes the blanket off him and exposes his own legs so he can write back. _You’ve never even met me!_

Maybe Owain was asking him like this because he thought it was cute. Or maybe he wasn’t in his room, and so he couldn’t write back. Inigo didn’t consider that… but Owain does write back and so he’s relieved he doesn’t have to call him crazy on his arm where the whole castle he lives in can see it.

_I’ve known you my whole life!_

 

 _But you haven’t met me! Owain I could be ugly or smelly or half ogre and how would you know?_ Maybe if he points out all of these things Owain will retract his proposal? Maybe he won’t want to marry him anymore, and that might be… easier.

 

_I would still love you, even if you were half ogre. I might be surprised you hadn’t mentioned that in twenty years, though. Do you have any special powers?_

_I’m not an ogre._ Inigo rolls his eyes but he has butterflies in his stomach and his heart is racing. For the first time in his life those things feel _good_. He sucks in a breath. He wants to marry Owain, he really does. He doesn’t want him to take back his proposal. He just… isn’t sure how it will work. _Are you allowed to marry me? I’m a wandering mercenary with no family to speak of and you’re a prince, you know. Aren’t there rules about dowries and heirs?_

 

He’s not sure how it works in Ylisse. In Ferox they are ruled by power, not by blood. He doesn’t know much about the Exalted Bloodline either, outside of their birthright to the holy lands. He does know that Owain isn’t the first heir so maybe they’ll be more lenient?

 

 _Ah, about that._ Owain writes, and Inigo bites his lip. He’s not sure he’s gotten much good news in his life that starts that way. _I was thinking maybe I could join you in your travels. Secretly._

_Owain! Are you suggesting you run away? Have you been outside of Ylisstol a day in your life?_

_Never! And it’s horrible Inigo, it’s boring and unbecoming of a hero, and worst of all it’s without you. I want to run away with you. Don’t you want that, too?_

He does. He wants to meet Owain. He wants to touch him and kiss him and _marry him_ even. He’s wanted that for years now, he has no intention of denying Owain. He just… He sighs. “Wow,” he says. Doug ignores him. He wasn’t talking to him anyway. _If I get caught trying to smuggle you out of Ylisstol…_

_You won’t!_ Owain writes. _I’ll draw you a map. There are some secret routes in this city. I’ll meet you as far away from the castle as I can and we’ll leave, and we can finally be together._

_Well you had better be a good kisser._ Inigo scrawls the words with probably the most love he can force through ink, and he laughs at himself and pushes his fingers through his bangs. He’s going to steal a prince from Ylisse. _It will take me a few days to get through the Longfort._ The last time he was there he learned that his childhood friend is stationed to work there. Kjelle. He wonders if she would help him… or at least turn a blind eye to him bringing an Ylissean across the border.  Once he crosses the border it’s still a few days’ time before he will get to Ylisstol and…

 

He’s excited. _Will you really marry me?_

 

There is barely a moment’s hesitation when ink surfaces on his skin. _In a heartbeat! Our union will be the stuff of legends, and our journeys together will be made into history._

 

“Doug,” Inigo breathes. The dog looks up at him, from his spot. Inigo grins. “You’re missing everything—Doug, I’m getting _married_! We’re going to get Owain.”

 

For what it’s worth, Doug does waggle his tail.

 

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Weeks pass before Inigo manages to find his way into Ylisstol. The city is broken up into two parts. The inner city is where the castle is, surrounded by a wall that is more decorative than it is defensive. Most the population lives inside of the inner city, where there is always hustle and bustle and where the Exalt walks among her people.

 

The outer city is still lovely. More homes fill it and there are markets and shops throughout, and Inigo doesn’t think he has seen a city so lovely in all of Regna Ferox. Still, one thing he has noticed is that Ylisstol is built like a circle, like a maze almost. He would be lost without Owain’s help.

 

He drew a crude map of the city on Inigo’s arm, that night. Ink all over his skin, and some of it barely makes sense. Inigo can only see it by the light of the lantern he carries with him, because the sky is too inky to see through the night without it.

 

Owain says that he knows of a lot of hidden paths through the inner city. Catacombs and passages that have been built to keep their Exalt safe in the event of an emergency or attack, but are always abandoned because that simply has never happened.

 

Owain’s plan is simple. He intends to slip through the passages of the inner city unnoticed. The inner city is guarded more heavily than the outer… and once he meets Inigo in the outer city they should be able to get out unnoticed, simply because in the night like this, most men and women will be asleep. No one will even notice their prince disappearing into the darkness.

 

Inigo’s role in this act is mostly just to keep him company, he thinks. Once they get out of Ylisstol he will guide Owain back into Regna Ferox. Kjelle… wants nothing to do with the plan, but Inigo thinks she won’t try to stop him either.

 

Doug stands tall, he’s nearly as tall as Inigo’s hips, and to keep him close Inigo reaches out and loops his fingers into the scarf he keeps tied decoratively around his neck. It makes him look dashing, Inigo thinks, but it also helps him spot his dog from long distances by searching for a flash of purple along the ground. Tonight, he must keep him close, lest he wander off and win the heart of some lady mutts… because once they meet Owain they will need to leave with haste.

 

“This is it,” He says. This is where his map has led him, to a little square with a well in the center. It looks like a shopping district, the buildings all appear to be bakeries or tailor shops or even, he thinks, one looks to be a café or tea shop. Inigo is almost jealous; they rarely have those in Ferox. Of course, he isn’t sure they will stay in Ferox long. Perhaps they will sail away to unknown ports?

 

There are a set of steps that lead to the well and Inigo sets the lantern on them, and then he takes a seat. Doug puts his giant paws on Inigo’s knee and so he reaches out and pets him. “And now we wait. Do you think Owain will recognize me?”

 

Of course, not. They’ve never met, not once. Owain will see him and have to accept him as he is. Is he afraid? Is he worried that perhaps Inigo is hideous? Inigo would be… lying if he said it hadn’t crossed his mind that perhaps Owain won’t be much of a pleasure on the eyes. He still loves him without regard to that, however. Owain truly could be hideous and Inigo would still have fallen in love with him for his compassion and for his constant support throughout his life.

 

Truly Inigo hopes that he is doing well in his part of this plan. He knows that Owain must be cautious. There are guards in the castle, in the inner city, and Owain must travel without light. While Owain’s family thought he was retiring for the night that evening he was truly in his room packing a small bag with belongings and preparing to sneak away.

 

He told Inigo he was going to try and sneak out a sword with him, so that he won’t be defenseless. Inigo is admittedly worried that is a senseless detour… he can protect them both until they can purchase Owain a sword later. If he gets caught in the armory…

 

Well if he gets caught at all Inigo knows their plans will be ruined. They won’t be meeting, or running away together, or _getting married_. Doug’s ears lift and he turns his head away from Inigo’s idle scratching. Inigo hears footsteps on the cobblestone. He turns his head.

 

He recognizes him.

 

Inigo has never met Owain before but he knows who he is looking at like he knows how to breathe, like he knows he needs him just as much as air. He recognizes him and he pushes himself up off the steps. The closer Owain steps into the lantern light the more he’s certain. He’s wearing a cloak (and thank goodness, he’ll likely need that) but Inigo can still see him, he still knows.

 

He sways slightly on his feet. He wants to walk closer but he thinks his heart stops when Owain looks at him, and his eyes are bright and they reflect the lantern light in shades of green… but even brighter than his eyes is his smile. A wide grin, and he wears it the entire distance between them, until Inigo is swept into an embrace.

 

“Oh gods, you’re real.” Inigo whispers. Owain bends to hug him, only a little but he does anyway and so Inigo wraps his arms around him and lays his cheek against his shoulder. Owain is taller but not by too much. He’s blonde. Inigo noticed when he was approaching. He supposed he never thought to imagine him as a blonde but it suits him. His arms are warm where they pull Inigo tight into him, so tight he might break. They’re warm and they’re solid and they’re real. He’s _real_.

 

All his life Owain has been maybe just nothing. Maybe a curse. Maybe imaginary. Maybe a fluke. For the first time in his life Owain is a man, standing right here and holding him and Inigo’s breath catches in his throat when he tries to talk. It comes out as a tiny sob. “You’re real, I can’t believe you’re real.”

 

“Of course I’m real.” Oh, his voice is a dream. Inigo is sure he sounds familiar but he’s not. He’s brand new. His voice is soft but energetic. Inigo will bet money he’s loud when he’s not trying to sneak away from the only home he’s ever known.

 

He’s real, he’s so real. Owain is real and he lays his cheek on top of Inigo’s head but after Inigo says that he pushes him back to look at him in the eyes. “I-I know you’re real, but you’re _really_ real. You’re here.” Beautiful green eyes, and they’re on him, they’re watching _Inigo_. Watching Inigo cry, that is, and so he sniffles and whispers “Don’t stare.”

 

“How can I not?” Owain asks. Inigo blushes, dark and painful and worst of all _shameful_ but… Owain doesn’t seem to mind. “You’re so handsome! Not an ogre at all, I think.”

 

An ogre. Inigo starts to smile at the joke but he stops when he feels Owain’s hands on his face. His fingers are calloused. Maybe he trains with swords more often than Inigo knew? There is a lot Inigo doesn’t know about Owain but he still knows all that matters. Doesn’t he?

 

Owain swipes at his tears with his thumbs and Inigo closes his eyes and smiles for him anyway. This feels nice. No one has held him like this when he cries, not since his mother passed away and Inigo… loves it. He nuzzles into Owain’s hand and then looks up at him with watery eyes.

 

Suddenly there is grey ink surfacing on his skin. Inigo blinks his eyes open to focus. As he does, Owain laughs softly. “Oh, I got ink on your face. It must have rubbed off my hands.” His hands _are_ pretty messy. Probably from drawing that map out for Inigo, and the ink…

 

Is on Inigo’s face. He reaches out and rubs his own thumbs over Owain’s cheeks, under his eyes, and his smile only brightens. The ink on Inigo’s face showed up on Owain. Because he is his soulmate, of course, because he is his best friend and has been forever. Does he need any more proof than this? They’re connected.

 

He laughs. It’s a gentle laugh through happy tears and then he uses his gentle grip on Owain’s face to pull their faces together, to leave a feather light kiss on his lips. After a few seconds of surprise, Owain responds. Is it his first kiss, Inigo wonders? If it is, he does a damn fine job of masking it… because he puts his hand on Inigo’s hip to steady them and the other makes its way into his hair to pull him forward by the back of his neck.

 

It’s a perfect kiss. Inigo hums against Owain’s lips when they part. He wants to kiss him more, of course. He wants to kiss him for hours; he has years to make up for. He wants to kiss him to make sure that Owain knows this isn’t a mistake. They’re meant to be together. Against all odds, they’re together. “I love you?”

 

Why is that a question? Inigo clears his throat. That isn’t meant to be a question. Luckily it must not come across too poorly because Owain nods his head. “I love you too!” Inigo dips his head. There’s just a hint of laughter in Owain’s voice. He shakes his head back and forth. “I’m sorry, you’re just really—wow. You’re breathtaking!”

 

 _Breathtaking_. Inigo has certainly never been called that before. He swallows a knot in his throat. “Owain…”

 

Owain swoops close and pecks his lips again. “I’m excited! I—oh.” He hesitates and Inigo isn’t sure why. Then he follows his gaze and glances down to see Doug sniffing at Owain’s hand. Inigo almost apologizes, an instinct that comes with dog ownership, but… he doesn’t get to. Owain kneels and scrubs his hands over the dog’s face until Doug is wagging his tail and happy, and then Owain hugs the dog around his neck for a short moment. (Dogs, Inigo imagines, are less sentimental about hugs.)

 

“Sir Douglas! The hero dog who saved Inigo’s life—I owe you the world for keeping him safe for me.”

 

Well, that’s embarrassing. But also, true. Inigo takes a few steps until he can reach out for the lantern. Owain stands up and nods his head at him. “We need to set out before it gets light,” Owain begins, but both of them freeze with the sound of a voice.

 

“Owain?”

 

 _Oh no_.

 

Inigo turns and he’s looking at a girl close to their age. He’s looking at someone who recognizes Owain by name and not by title, someone who knows he’s going to run and who might stand to stop him.

 

Inigo can’t give him back. He’s already held him, already kissed him, already dreamed of kissing him more… He won’t give Owain back. He nudges Owain’s hand with his own.

 

Owain wraps his fingers around Inigo’s.

 

“Are you—are you _leaving_?” She asks. She looks them both over. Her hair is in pigtails, thick and almost curled and her hair is deep, rich blue. She’s dressed mostly in clothes Inigo thinks she should be wearing to bed, but she’s wrapped up in a cloak as well.

 

“You followed me?” Owain asks. “Cynthia, I…”

 

“Is that Inigo?”

 

Inigo’s eyes move away from Owain and right to her. She said his name, after all, and he doesn’t know her. But Owain does, and he rolls in his own lips. Owain squeezes his hand tighter, but then gestures to her. “Inigo, this is my cousin Cynthia. Cynthia, meet Inigo of the Indigo Skies!”

 

“Your soulmate,” She says, and then her knees bend and she covers her mouth and _bounces_. “Oh, wow! He’s so cute, too!”

 

“I’m not...!” Cute. He’s not cute, he thinks, but he doesn’t fight that. He just watches her look between them. She withdraws her excitement.

 

“You’re… you’re not coming back home, are you?” No. Inigo is taking him out of Ylisstol. Doug sits down by their feet. Owain swallows back a quiet noise and Cynthia’s smile melts entirely into a tiny frown. “You’d better write about all your adventures.” She says. “Everything! Write often!”

 

Write often. Inigo thinks they are both pretty good at that.

 

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_Dearest Cynthia,_

_Since last I wrote we have crossed the sea to Valm. The journey was fun, almost romantic, but Sir Douglas grew seasick. The port city is incredible! The ocean is beautiful. I hope you’ll see it one day._

_We passed through a handful of villages but one of them only a few farm fields and scattered houses. The homes were ravaged and burnt to the ground, but we found a survivor! She breathes and lives! She is a little girl named Ophelia. She won’t speak a word, but she drew her name in the dirt for us. Perhaps someday she will open up her secrets to us, and speak? I’m certain her words will be the stuff magic is made of._

_We think she has family somewhere across Valm and so we are searching for them. With luck, we will find them for her soon. She seems to tolerate us just fine. She might be the first girl Inigo has won the heart of! She giggles like raindrops when he asks her to dance. Sir Douglas is also taken by her, and he sleeps curled around her at night._

_I think she likes my stories, too. She reminds me of when we were children! Perhaps she is the next generation of the Justice Cabal?_

_Ophelia has been with us for a few weeks now. Since we found her, we also found a small town that reminds me of Ylisstol. We had tea together, the three of us. I believe Inigo liked it better than she did, but she enjoyed the cake he bought her._

_We bought our rings, finally. Although I could trace ink along his skin for the rest of my life, the smile on his face when he slipped his wedding band over his finger for the first time… There is no word that can describe it. Inigo’s smile is the most raw, beautiful power this world has to offer. I think it can save lives._

_It certainly has saved mine!_

_Yours always,_

_Owain_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> sir douglas is the most important oc i have ever made please love him


End file.
